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the cursed and ominous barking of the pesky dogs roaming past the courtyard
gate—I was alarmed; to put it mildly。
“Hayriye;” I shouted。 “Shevket; Orhan…”
I felt a cold draft。 My father’s brazier must be burning; I ought to sit with
him and warm up。 As I went to be with him; holding an oil lamp aloft; my
thoughts weren’t with Black any longer; but with the children。
I crossed the wide hall diagonally; wondering if I should set water to boil on
the downstairs brazier for the gray mullet soup。 I entered the room with the
blue door。 Everything was in shambles。 Without thinking; I was about to say;
“What has my father done?”
Then I saw him on the floor。
I screamed; overe with horror。 Then I screamed again。 Gazing at my
father’s body; I fell silent。
Listen; I can tell by your tight…lipped and cold…blooded reaction that you’ve
known for some time what’s happened in this room。 If not everything; then
quite a lot。 What you’re wondering about now is my reaction to what I’ve
seen; what I feel。 As readers sometimes do when studying a picture; you’re
trying to discern the pain of the hero and thinking about the events in the
story leading up to this agonizing moment。 And then; having considered my
reaction; you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine; not my pain; but what
you’d feel in my place; had it been your father murdered like this。 I know this
is what you’re so craftily trying to do。
Yes; I returned home in the evening to discover that someone had killed my
father。 Yes; I tore out my hair。 Yes; as I would do in my childhood; I hugged